by Amy Arnold
Going up around the Crag is the best way to go.
It’s evening on the longest day of the year and it’s hot. It’s still hot. And I’m only late because Charlie said I should look out of the window at number five.
‘Look out of the window, Ash,’ she said. And I looked out and the swifts were there and Jay was there with his hands on her breasts. I’m talking about the girl in the little black dress, although she wasn’t a girl, she was almost a woman. He had his hands on her breasts and I’d never seen anyone take someone else’s breasts the way he took hers and she didn’t say a thing, not to begin with, she didn’t say anything when he took her breasts.
I’m late. I’m late, but it doesn’t take long to get up Cotters Hill and it isn’t the same as the first day I came up this way with Charlie, or when I came up with Kate, because it rained almost every day that summer. The grasses were up then too, but it wasn’t the same. We walked via the Crag and the grasses were up and she was wearing a skirt and I was in my shorts and there we were with our bare knees, the wet grasses against our legs. That’s how it was. The grasses were wet against our legs and it was us two only.
Here I am, just below the Crag, and all I have to do now is scramble up. You can scramble up this way. I’ve done it before. You just have to get a good hold right here, then you can scramble up, so you can see the top of the hill. You can see the top from the Crag and if you’re careful, nobody can see you.
And it isn’t dangerous, scrambling up the Crag. As long as you know where the best holds are, it isn’t dangerous. The climbers do it all the time. They do it without thinking, but it’s too hot for the climbers today. I haven’t seen a single one.
And here. I can see the top from here. It’s a vantage point, that’s what it is. And there they are, there’s everyone from Naturally Yoga, on the top of the hill. And I’ve got to say, why not say, I’m looking out for her.
I’m looking out for her.
I’ll wait here. Yes, I’ll stay here until I see her, because it’s always easier to join in when there’s someone you know, and I can always sense when she’s around. I mean, I can usually tell when she’s around. But it’s hot tonight. It’s the longest day of the year and I’m not thinking about the lost hours, or the hours left. I’m not thinking about time. It’s important to be present in the here and now, and it’s so hot, even though it’s evening. It’s almost too hot to be waiting here on the Crag.
I can’t see her. I can see the others. I can see them, but I can’t see Kate. Kate.
It sounds like an echo, her name, when there’s no one to hear me say it, but it can’t be an echo because there’s nothing but space behind me, and at the bottom of the Crag the grasses are up, the way they’re always up in June. And maybe I should just wait, go on waiting. Wait until she comes. I can celebrate the light from the Crag, at least until I see her, and there’s a good view from here. It’s easy enough to see the top.
I heard one of them say she isn’t coming. I heard the one with the flower band in her hair say she isn’t coming. She said it to Jay. I heard her call him over and tell him. She called him Jay although he didn’t look anything like Jay from number five. There are too many Jays.
‘Kate can’t make it.’ That’s what she said.
We’d saved the cake for the top, Kate and I. I was wearing shorts and she was wearing a skirt and there we were with our bare knees on the top of Cotters Hill.
‘She isn’t coming.’ That’s what the one with the flower band in her hair said.
It isn’t about the top. That’s what I said back then.
She didn’t want me to run. She linked her arm through mine and said, ‘No, don’t, Ash.’
She isn’t coming. Behind me is space, all that emptiness and nothing and no one to stop me running down.
I ran down the hill.
I climbed down the Crag, then I ran. I ran down the steep way. I ran down the way I came up, and if you’ve never run down, you won’t know.
I wanted to run. She wasn’t coming, she wasn’t going to come. That’s what the one with the flower band in her hair said. I heard her say it, so I ran down. It isn’t about the top. I’d told her that before. She wasn’t coming so I ran. I ran, and she wasn’t there to stop me. Wasn’t there to link her arm through mine, so I ran down the steep way. Through the grasses. I was running so fast all I could hear was breath and feet. I heard my feet on the grass, I heard my feet on the stones. I heard myself breathe. I heard my breath come out from my chest, out from my mouth and into my ears and back out again. I heard it making circles, out and in. There was nothing else to hear. There was nothing apart from my breath going out and in, and feet.
And I was running down, running down, and I was thinking about my feet. I was thinking about my feet and the sounds they made, over grass and over stones, and I wasn’t thinking about anything else. I wasn’t thinking about the hours that had gone. I wasn’t thinking about how soon the days would get shorter, the swifts would leave, the house martins would leave, and wouldn’t come back for months.
I was in the here and now, I was centred. I remember thinking, yes, my feet and the way my breathing sounds when it hits the air. I remember thinking, yes, I’m in the here and now, and I was running fast and I was thinking about my feet. I was listening to them.
I was listening for them.
I was listening, listening. I couldn’t hear them any more, my feet on grass, on stones. I was listening, but there was nothing to hear. I was listening, but there was only breath, coming out from my chest, and Papa.
Papa saying, ‘Apus apus, Ash.’ Papa using all those As, all that alliteration.
‘As if you had no feet, Ash. Run as if you had no feet.’
And I ran. I was running down. I was flying down and I had no feet. I couldn’t hear my feet, although the ground was beneath them. And I wasn’t thinking about time. I was making time. I wasn’t thinking about it and I wasn’t thinking about Kate. I wasn’t thinking about her and I flew on past. I had no feet and I flew on past. I flew on, whilst she was walking up. Kate was walking up, in her dancing cornflower scarf, the one she hung at the foot of our stairs once.
I was flying down.
She was going up.
When I got back to our hill Jay was on the sofa alone. He had the music on loud but Terry wasn’t there to tell him to turn it down. I waited. I stood outside the house and waited. I said to myself that I’d wait until Terry opened the window, I wanted to hear him say, Too loud, son. It would have helped. I wanted Terry to come, but he didn’t come and it was too hot to wait.
We sit at the table next to the dog.
‘Hello,’ Charlie says to the dog. ‘Hello, sir.’
The dog turns his head.
‘Hello, sir, on this hot afternoon,’ she says and he looks at her, the big dog, and she looks at me, and I nod my head and she goes on talking.
‘Can’t we just sit somewhere else?’ Abbott says.
A quiet beer at the White Hart is all he asks, all he wants, it’s a simple thing, but Charlie likes the dog, the one tied to the bench. She likes the big dog with the thick coat and she doesn’t want to sit anywhere else. She says she doesn’t care about anything else, she only cares about the dog and if Charlie’s not moving then…
We sit at the table next to the dog.
Abbott holds his beer up to the light. There’s been so much of it. Light, light, light. Nothing but light these past few weeks and he holds his beer up and the light comes through it.
‘They do a good beer here,’ he says.
And Charlie says, ‘Dad’s got a nice beer,’ and she’s talking to the dog but Abbott holds his beer up to the light one more time then takes a sip.
‘A nice beer on a nice day,’ he says.
‘But whose dog is it?’ Charlie says.
Because the dog is tied to the bench and there isn’t anyone sitting with it. There are people sitting at tables, lots of people, but there isn’t anyone sit
ting at the table with the dog. There should be someone with the dog, but there isn’t, and Charlie’s looking around and I’m looking around and there should be someone here to look after him.
Abbott says we should drink up, us two. Someone will come. ‘People don’t abandon dogs at pubs,’ he says, but there are three other dogs at the tables and all the other dogs have people, but this dog doesn’t have a person and he’s tugging on his lead towards Charlie. He’s so close to her, but Charlie’s sitting on the bench and the dog is down there on the grass and the grass is yellow. It’s been so hot the grass is yellow.
‘This is the best dog, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Out of all the dogs, it’s the best.’
It looks like a good dog, although all the other dogs have people with them.
‘This is the best dog. Do you think it is?’ she says.
She says, ‘Do you think?’
And a man carrying a beer walks across the grass towards the bench, the table, where the dog is. The table next to our table. He puts his beer down on the table and he sits on the bench and he says, ‘Mind out.’ He says it to the dog.
‘Mind out.’
That’s what he says, although the dog’s tied up on the other side of the bench. The dog’s right next to our table and nowhere near the man, but still the man says mind out. And he’s definitely saying it to the dog because he stretches his leg out under the table. He stretches it right out so he can reach the dog, so he can move the dog with his big boot. His big, brown boot. That’s what he does. He hooks his boot under the dog’s belly and he shifts the dog.
‘Oh,’ Charlie says.
‘You see,’ Abbott says. ‘People don’t leave their dogs.’
And the man takes his beer and holds it up to the light. He holds it up and the dog pulls on his lead. He pulls towards Charlie and Charlie says, ‘Hello, sir’ again, but quietly. And the dog pulls and the man says, ‘Lie down,’ to the dog. Lie down, boy. But the dog doesn’t lie down, he wants to get to Charlie. He pulls on his lead towards Charlie, and Charlie goes to pat him, she puts her hand out, holds it out and the man hasn’t seen her. No, the man isn’t looking at Charlie. He’s looking across the grass towards the car park.
‘Over here, over here,’ he says, and he stands up. He waves. ‘Over here,’ he says.
And someone’s walking across the grass. Walking towards the table where the man with the dog is sitting. Walking slowly, or do I mean smoothly? Walking as though the yellow grass is water.
And it’s hardly been a day. It was only last night. I was running down Cotters Hill and Kate was walking up. I was running so fast I missed her. She missed me. But here she is again, walking across the grass, sailing across the grass, towards the man with the dog.
Karma, that’s what she would’ve said. Us two, meeting like that, two days in a row. And she’s right. It has to be karma. We haven’t seen each other for months, for years, now all of a sudden. Twice.
She’s walking over. She’s walking across the grass towards the man with the dog and he’s waving his arm. A stubby arm. She can see where he is, but he’s still waving.
And he gets up from the bench. He pushes it back with his thigh and stands up. He stands up and straddles the bench and he says hello and she’s almost there.
‘Hi. Hello. Hi,’ he says. ‘You made it.’
And he straddles the bench and he leans towards her. He leans over and he stretches out his arm. He holds it out, he holds it until she walks right into the space he’s making with it. They move towards each other, the man and Kate, and Charlie says, ‘The dog, look at the dog,’ and the dog is panting, panting. He’s panting and pulling, and Kate leans right in and he puts his arm around her shoulder and he pulls her. He pulls her in and kisses her.
‘Everybody finished then?’ Abbott says. ‘Drink up, Ash,’ he says.
And we get up. She’s only just arrived and we’re getting up to go, although Charlie doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to leave the dog, but Abbott says, ‘Come on, there are plenty more dogs where this dog came from.’ And we have to go. We have to come on, but the man’s got her hand. I can see from here, he’s holding Kate’s hand and I can see the hairs on his fingers, and Abbott doesn’t have hairs on his fingers like that. Not thick, black hairs like that. I wouldn’t like it if he had fingers like that, if he held my hand with fingers like that. But we have to go. We have to come on and walk back across the grass to the car park.
‘They do good beer here,’ Abbott says. ‘They always do a good beer here, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘One moment.’
‘What now? What, Ash?’
And I’ve stopped coming on. I’ve turned around. And there she is, sitting at the table, and it’s been a while, it’s been a long time, and I’m trying to remember and I can’t remember. I can’t remember her sitting with her back to me before. No, she wouldn’t ever have faced away from me.
‘Ash,’ Abbott says. ‘Ash.’
But where’s the man? He must’ve gone. He can’t have gone, because there’s his dog. Lying down now. Given up on pulling. Given up on getting to Charlie. I suppose he’s gone inside, the man, for chips, for beer, but she wouldn’t drink beer. Wouldn’t ever touch a beer.
‘Ash,’ Abbott says. ‘We’ll meet you at the car then.’
He takes Charlie’s hand. He says, ‘Come on,’ and they go on walking across the grass towards the car.
They walk towards the car. Abbott stops and turns to look back at me and here I am, still standing here on the grass, looking at the table where Kate is.
‘Ash,’ he says. ‘What are you doing?’
What am I doing standing here on the grass? What am I doing looking back across the grass? It’s yellow now, after all that sun, it isn’t even green. And Abbott’s looking. He’s waiting. Waiting for me to do something, and he doesn’t go, he doesn’t move until I do.
I walk back across the grass. I walk right up to the table where Kate is sitting, where the dog is lying. I walk right up and she’s got her back to me. She’s looking at her phone, she doesn’t see, doesn’t notice. And I could put out my hand, could touch her, but I can’t. Can’t just creep up and touch someone. It’s different with dogs though. People do it all the time, reach out and touch dogs that don’t belong to them. And Charlie’s right, this dog is probably the best dog. He looks like a good dog, although he looks a bit sad. And I could put out my hand and touch him. There. He likes it. He doesn’t mind at all. He seems like a good dog, a gentle dog, although he doesn’t seem all that happy. Doesn’t seem to like being tied up all that much. And she hasn’t seen, hasn’t looked up, and it wouldn’t be right to touch her. Not here, not now. But the dog likes it. He likes having his head stroked. And why not, I think, if the man’s not here, why not give the dog a chance? Why not unclip his lead? Give him a little chance. There. There you go.
‘You can go if you want to,’ I whisper. ‘Go.’
And he turns his head towards me. It’s a big head. He turns to look at me with his big head. He turns away, and then he goes. He crosses the grass. The big dog crosses the grass and his ears are up and his tail is up.
‘The air con’s on,’ Abbott says. ‘You’d never know we were having a heatwave. You’d never know, sitting in here, would you?’ he says. ‘Would you, Ash?’
‘No,’ I say.
And he lets the handbrake off.
‘Let’s go,’ he says. ‘Tilstoke bound.’
And it’s nice to be able to think about homonyms again, to think of leaping strides.
‘Stop, Dad,’ Charlie says. And Abbott puts his foot on the brake and we lurch forward, we all lurch forward.
‘The dog,’ she says.
And there’s the dog, standing in front of the car.
‘Careful,’ she says.
Abbott revs the engine. He revs the engine, but the dog doesn’t mind, just stays where he is in front of the car, and he looks happy, the dog, he looks quite a lot happier now.
‘Come on,’ Abbott says. ‘Move yourself, crazy canine.’
He reverses a bit, a tiny bit and he’s about to drive around the dog but the dog walks a few steps and stands in front of the car again and Abbott can’t go, he can’t drive and he says, ‘That man. He’s let his bloody dog loose.’
And the dog is loose. He’s loose and he’s standing in front of the car and we can’t pull out. We can’t drive away. Abbott looks at his nice watch. He taps his Second Core and we look at the dog. We sit in the car and look at the dog.
‘Get out,’ he says to Charlie. ‘Get out and move the dog.’
Charlie gets out. Charlie gets out and the dog is standing in front of the car and Charlie walks up to the dog and the dog turns his big head. Charlie puts out her hand. ‘Hello,’ she says. And the dog looks happy, so much happier.
‘He likes her,’ I say, and Abbott nods. He looks at his watch and he holds it up to the windscreen so Charlie can see it, but Charlie doesn’t understand. She doesn’t care about time. She’s talking to the dog, saying something to him, and Abbott says he hasn’t got all day. But it doesn’t matter what he hasn’t got because Charlie’s coming now, walking back to the car with the dog beside her. She’s walking with the dog beside her and when she gets back in the car the dog follows. He hops inside and she shuts the door.
‘Ash,’ Abbott says.
And what am I supposed to do?
‘Ash,’ he says. And the dog is there on the back seat with Charlie.
‘Perhaps you should drive,’ I say. ‘Maybe just drive.’
And Charlie puts her arm around the dog. She rests her head against his chest. ‘Papa,’ she says. It isn’t something she usually says. ‘Papa, please.’
And Abbott says OK. He says, ‘OK,’ and he straightens his driving glasses and he puts the car into gear.
The dog gave himself to Charlie, just like that. He lay across the back seat with his head on her knee and he was sold on her, made up.